A Walk Through a Cemetery
Dublin Core
Title
A Walk Through a Cemetery
Creator
Berta
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Date
September, 1875
Contributor
Ashley Hughes, Lindsey Macdonald
Rights
Permission to publish images from The Gray Jacket must be obtained from Special Collections, Virginia Tech.
Format
Text
Language
English
Type
Fiction
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.1, v.1, no.3 (Sept. 1875), p.1-8
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
As I pass through the Cemetery by the costly monuments with which the wealthy have marked the last resting place of their dead, I think how little the show of wealth can measure the depths of true sorrow, or how much can be told of the real feelings of those who placed these memorials here, for wealth vies with wealth and pride with pride; and sad to say rivalry enters into our most sacred woes. But what is this, that speaks to us such touching and pathetic language of the hallowed dead that lies here? 'Tis a wreath of roses. No marble slab is needed to mark the sleepers last resting place, for that little grave there "under the daisies" is enshrined in the heart of the young mother, and its name is engraven in burning letters on the tablet of her memory. In the early Spring of each returning year she comes to wreathe the grave in nature's own love-tokens, and in the Autumn when the trees are dismantled and bare and fair nature "has changed her bright robes for the sables of grief," then she lingers longer than she is wont to do by this sacred spot, and dreams of the tender flowers which, just springing into life, was nipped by the frosty hand of death, and now lies withered and lifeless, waiting the summons of God to take up the silver thread of existence in that bright realm where God lives. While hardier flowers come to comfort and bless the mourner, yet she passionately clings to the little form, there under the wreath of roses.
As I pass on, I see a figure in deep mourning bending over the grave of a youth. Ah, what hopes lie entombed there! That mother, as she saw the child developing into the man, looked forward with joy to the time when she would again have a strong arm to lean upon and a true heart to trust. She was proud of him as only a mother knows how to be proud of a son, whose spotless character and manly bearing has made his name the synonyma of honor itself. Could you look into that widowed mother's heart, you might there see the gorgeous temple of her love despoiled of its paintings; its every idol thrown down and broken, and nothing but the marred and blackened walls left to attest its former beauty. In those tears which moisten the "dust where his ashes consume," we might read in sorrow's own language her most heart-rending expressions of woe. Oh! God this is the work of thy hand and thou dost work for all wise ends; thou dost bruise but to heal; thou dost bereave but to comfort; thou dost take the flower of the flock, for what end we know not. Help us to say, "thy will be done."
Just before us rises the monument of a great statesman, whose proud name was on every man's lips. He it was who guided the ship of state and wielded the destinies of the nation. At his will the nation went to war or plied the implements of peaceful toil. And this monument was raised by his grateful countrymen to the memory of a statesman and patriot, noble and true, who refused to pander to the vulgar rabble, but persevered in his exalted course, breasting every storm which malice, envey and ingratitude could hurl against him, that he might incite the nation to higher and better aims, and hasten that happy consummation, liberty, peace and happiness.
Now we come to the grave of the warrior. Of all earthly heroes, from time immemorial, the warrior has formed the favorite theme for the poet's pen and the orator's eloquence; and so great is the admiration of man for the bold heart which calmly contemplates the glittering steel and fearlessly grapples with the grim monster, that the philanthropy of Christianity has made no considerable headway against this kind of hero worship.
There are two classes of war-heroes which claim our admiration, but not our praise. The one class in which Alexander is prominent and Napoleon stands pre-eminent. This tyrant whose towering insatiate ambition drenched Europe in blood—this paragon of war, whose thunderbolt descended alike on the strong fortress and the peaceful hamlet; this enemy to peace and man, whose very name was a terror to mankind, has been worshiped for two or three generations by the very people he indirectly ruined.
The other class is headed by Leonidas of old, whose mantle has in our day fallen on such men as our own noble Lee. What a contrast between these two classes. In that we have unrighteous ambition, which leads its votaries to the wished for goal over battle fields covered with dead men and flooded in their blood; in this we have a quiet, serene love of country, which prefers peace to war, but never shrinks when his country's interest or honor calls for the sacrifice of his life. Such love, coupled with all that's noble and God-like in man, marked the character of our immortal Lee and Jackson, as well as the thousands of brave boys, who left their quiet and happy homes, and whose quiet and uneventful lives had been spent in classic shades and in breathing love and devotion to some fair damsel, who, when they heard the clanking of the invader's arms and the tramping of his war steeds on the plains of Manassa, flew to arms, and fought through four long years, encountering hardships indescribable, while many thousands fell in the front ranks of the battle, with no loved ones to catch their dying words, and no soft hand to close their eyes and smoothe their brows for that final sleep. Their names are unknown, as they lie on the field of carnage; their graves unmarked, but there is a mound to their memory in the common heart of the South. They are gone; but their fame cannot die, it will be handed down as a golden heritage from generation to generation to the remotest period of time, and whenever freedom and honor have a language, will be sung as a memorial of them.
As I pass on, I see a figure in deep mourning bending over the grave of a youth. Ah, what hopes lie entombed there! That mother, as she saw the child developing into the man, looked forward with joy to the time when she would again have a strong arm to lean upon and a true heart to trust. She was proud of him as only a mother knows how to be proud of a son, whose spotless character and manly bearing has made his name the synonyma of honor itself. Could you look into that widowed mother's heart, you might there see the gorgeous temple of her love despoiled of its paintings; its every idol thrown down and broken, and nothing but the marred and blackened walls left to attest its former beauty. In those tears which moisten the "dust where his ashes consume," we might read in sorrow's own language her most heart-rending expressions of woe. Oh! God this is the work of thy hand and thou dost work for all wise ends; thou dost bruise but to heal; thou dost bereave but to comfort; thou dost take the flower of the flock, for what end we know not. Help us to say, "thy will be done."
Just before us rises the monument of a great statesman, whose proud name was on every man's lips. He it was who guided the ship of state and wielded the destinies of the nation. At his will the nation went to war or plied the implements of peaceful toil. And this monument was raised by his grateful countrymen to the memory of a statesman and patriot, noble and true, who refused to pander to the vulgar rabble, but persevered in his exalted course, breasting every storm which malice, envey and ingratitude could hurl against him, that he might incite the nation to higher and better aims, and hasten that happy consummation, liberty, peace and happiness.
Now we come to the grave of the warrior. Of all earthly heroes, from time immemorial, the warrior has formed the favorite theme for the poet's pen and the orator's eloquence; and so great is the admiration of man for the bold heart which calmly contemplates the glittering steel and fearlessly grapples with the grim monster, that the philanthropy of Christianity has made no considerable headway against this kind of hero worship.
There are two classes of war-heroes which claim our admiration, but not our praise. The one class in which Alexander is prominent and Napoleon stands pre-eminent. This tyrant whose towering insatiate ambition drenched Europe in blood—this paragon of war, whose thunderbolt descended alike on the strong fortress and the peaceful hamlet; this enemy to peace and man, whose very name was a terror to mankind, has been worshiped for two or three generations by the very people he indirectly ruined.
The other class is headed by Leonidas of old, whose mantle has in our day fallen on such men as our own noble Lee. What a contrast between these two classes. In that we have unrighteous ambition, which leads its votaries to the wished for goal over battle fields covered with dead men and flooded in their blood; in this we have a quiet, serene love of country, which prefers peace to war, but never shrinks when his country's interest or honor calls for the sacrifice of his life. Such love, coupled with all that's noble and God-like in man, marked the character of our immortal Lee and Jackson, as well as the thousands of brave boys, who left their quiet and happy homes, and whose quiet and uneventful lives had been spent in classic shades and in breathing love and devotion to some fair damsel, who, when they heard the clanking of the invader's arms and the tramping of his war steeds on the plains of Manassa, flew to arms, and fought through four long years, encountering hardships indescribable, while many thousands fell in the front ranks of the battle, with no loved ones to catch their dying words, and no soft hand to close their eyes and smoothe their brows for that final sleep. Their names are unknown, as they lie on the field of carnage; their graves unmarked, but there is a mound to their memory in the common heart of the South. They are gone; but their fame cannot die, it will be handed down as a golden heritage from generation to generation to the remotest period of time, and whenever freedom and honor have a language, will be sung as a memorial of them.